


Painted Roses and Howling Wolves

by gremlins-came-and-got-me (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hales, Baker Scott, Historical, Light Angst, M/M, Magical stiles, Mean Rumors, Miller Sheriff, Noble Hales, Pre-Belle Époque, Set in 1870s, Soulmarks of a Kind, Stiles to the rescue, Victorian Era England, derek needs a date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/gremlins-came-and-got-me
Summary: Baron’s son Derek Hale is in need of a social partner. His family always throws the best balls in the land and he is tired of the rumours that follow him when he is always single at these balls. He is single because no one has of yet matched his unique mark, and the older he gets, the less chance he knows he will find them.Stiles is fascinated with searching his own future, using magic, which on top of being dangerous, costs money. Enter Lord Hale in need of a few dances in exchange for some coin.There’s only one rule: do not leave Derek alone during the ball. But Stiles is easily overwhelmed, never having seen such opulence in one place, and then he realises why Derek was not to be left alone when the rumours reach his ears.Well, a few words, a show of magical ability, and the accidental reveal of his own unique mark, and the gossipers are firmly in their place and Stiles has a new benefactor-suitor.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 148
Collections: Sterek Goodness, The Sterek Secret Santa - Edition 2020





	Painted Roses and Howling Wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zjofierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/gifts).



> Happy holidays! Hope you like the story!
> 
> Please note: I am not English. There may be Americanizations of words although I did my best with spelling.

~ * ~

Derek presses the cloth firmly on the rose painted upon his skin.

“There,” his sister Cora says with a final swipe of her brush through her cup of water. “That should disguise it well enough.”

Derek lifts the cloth, studying the stark lines of the rose. “What if someone turns up with a rose too?” he asks.

It is unlikely that someone could have this same mark considering Cora has drawn it herself, but Derek knows of a few nobles who had been taken in by manufactured marks.

Cora pats at his shoulder. “All you have to do is drip your drink on either their mark or your own to prove that it is false.” She goes on tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Perhaps you should shave?” She rubs at her mouth where his beard scratched her.

Self consciously, he strokes it. Mother had finally agreed that he could grow his beard after yet another noblewoman had mistaken him for his decade-younger brother. “I’ll oil it,” he says. “Will that do?”

“It shall have to. Is there anything else you wish from me before I get ready?”

Derek inspects the rose again, half-expecting it to already be smudged or faded, but Cora is an artist in her own right even if she has to sell her paintings under Derek’s name. It’s still perfect. “No,” he concedes, and then he is alone in his room.

He crosses to the window, throws open the curtains, and stares out at the fresh snow that fell last night. Paths have already been shoveled, and Derek watches as people scurry to and fro.

He wishes he could go out riding today, but he doesn’t want to damage any of the horses by taking them into a drift too large to get out of.

Also, whenever his family hosts a ball, his mother loans out the horses to the nearby nobles.

Derek checks the rose again, a certain paranoia that it’s worn away. He can’t shake the feeling that even though there is no way it’s coming off with anything but some water and a cloth, he’ll be found out and exposed as trying to trap someone else who might have the rose.

It happens whether he hides his mark or not.

It’s probably because more nobles have marks that match or are easily mistaken for each other. Derek’s mark, a howling wolf, is the only one of its kind so far. Most of the balls since Derek was of marrying age have been trying to find his mark-mate. Of course, a lot of the balls have doubled as a status symbol for his family, but Derek can’t help but feel out of place among all the perfumed bodies wrapped in the newest of fashions.

He doesn’t enjoy the idle chattering of useless information, far preferring to discuss weighty matters unbecoming a lord of his position, son of the Baron and Baroness Hale. Some might think he wishes he were above his stature, but then, Derek knows, he’d have far more political events disguised as balls to attend.

He sighs, lamenting, and drapes himself over a chair. He has hours before the ball officially begins, and he is already dreading it.

At least his sister Cora and brother Daniel will be there. If Daniel’s betrothed isn’t present, and she may not be since her father’s lands are farther than should be risked in wintertime, then Derek won’t have to suffer the night alone.

If only he could find someone who would stay with him and chase away the rumours that follow him. Derek knows he could be happy with someone who doesn’t share his mark, but that acquiesce isn’t allowed in the nobility. Either he must find his mark-mate or suffer the whispers that he is broken and unlovable or worse, violent and dangerous, as the rumours have turned to lately.

Derek sighs. Perhaps he can convince his mother to allow him to travel to the village. Surely there is some errand that must be in want of being completed, and with all the servants busy preparing for the ball tonight, none of them should be spared.

A solid plan. Derek rolls down his sleeve and hurries to find his mother.

~ * ~

Stiles leaps back with a yell.

Scott, digging around in one of the cupboard, jerks, banging his head on his way out. “What?” he demands. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles shakes his head, throwing a towel over the bowl, hoping that breaking the connection in such a way will clear the water of any vision.

Scott eyes him oddly. “What did you do?” he asks.

“Why do you suppose I did something?” Stiles asks as innocently as he can—that is, not innocently at all. “Why must I have done something for you to accuse me?”

Scott doesn’t answer, instead pulling the towel from the bowl. He looks into the—thankfully—clear surface. He covers it again loosely and goes back to the cupboard, pulling out the coarse flour Stiles’ father had ground for them just last fortnight.

Stiles breathes a sigh of relief. How could he describe what he saw? A wedding! And not just any wedding, but his own! He’d been standing in a grand hall, facing his groom, a man whose face Stiles still doesn’t know despite looking for him nearly every day for a year.

He’d been startled when the man had spoken his given name, repeating the vows of the priest. Stiles is not Christian despite living in a Christian land. He and his father are travelers, lost after the death of Stiles’ mother and the death of his home country.

He doesn’t know if he even wants to be married by a priest. Wouldn’t that go against his religion? He and his father haven’t kept with it, too fearful of declaring their heritage too loudly. Many people do not look favorably upon those of a different faith.

So all Stiles knows is that his groom is of Christian faith. He can’t deny that he is disappointed in that fact.

Scott looks up from where he is measuring flour. He points an accusing finger at Stiles. “Were you looking at your future again?”

“What?” Stiles splutters. “No. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You only yell like that when you discover a new fact about yourself.” He dusts his hands off, using the towel from the bowl to wipe them clean. “Aren’t you not supposed to use magic like that?”

Stiles shakes his head. “There’s no true rule. As long as I don’t expose myself without cause, there is no danger.”

“Exposure without cause,” Scott repeats. “And what, pray tell, constitutes exposure without cause?”

Stiles shrugs. “I don’t truly know,” he admits.

“Stiles!”

“What! It’s not like the magic itself came up with that inane rule.”

“No, that was the Queen.” Scott crosses himself as if speaking of that vile woman would summon her to their little house.

When she doesn’t appear to have them arrested for wanton use of magic or speaking her name, Stiles raises an eyebrow. Scott mutters to himself and gets busy again with mixing his dough. He sells the extra loaves to other peasants such as themselves.

This parcel of land is rather well off, the Baron and Baroness bequeathing much of their wealth to keep their people hale and healthy.

Perhaps they do it to make up for all the balls they throw in the Queen’s honor and their middle child, Lord Derek. He is due to be married off if the Baroness can find a suitor for the poor man.

Stiles has rarely had cause to see any of the Hales aside from the annual autumnal festival where they celebrate another splendid harvest, but he cannot get Derek from his mind. He has never been close enough to make out his features, but Derek stands well, strong and broad-shouldered. Stiles often takes a little time with himself after seeing Derek standing stiffly at his father’s side, discussing matters despite being the second son and not in line to take over ruling.

“Why are you making bread so late?” Stiles asks.

Scott sighs, put out. “The ball is tonight, and the Baron and Baroness requested a meal. However, their house is understaffed at this moment. The recent storm kept many of the servants from returning in time, and those that are there are busy with preparations, so I was asked to make a few loaves for them.”

“Makes sense,” Stiles agrees. “Want any help?”

~ * ~

Derek traipses through the fresh snow, maybe a little too enthusiastically. He likes snow better than people. It settles something in him to find a patch of undisturbed area and just study it until it feels like when he breathes in he’s a part of it.

The village surrounding his family’s home is sprawling, space between houses taken up by trodden paths and patches of suspicious water.

Derek is trying to advocate for indoor plumbing, as they are starting to have in the larger towns and cities, but people are afraid of change, especially change suggested by a man who cannot even do something as simple as find his mark-mate.

Derek scowls down at his arm, at the covered mark. If he had not been born with such a distinct mark, he’s certain he could have been married a dozen times over, whether he wanted it or not.

Instead, he is tromping all over the village, looking for the baker who is not the baker on the first street, to collect some of the loaves promised to his mother for the ball tonight.

He was supposed to take a left after the barber, but Derek had seen no barber. Just a butcher. Lost, Derek turns one way and then another. The streets have not been officially named and when he stops a gentleman for directions, he gets a grunt and a finger pointing at a building nearly three houses to his right.

Derek thanks the man, drawing close the servant’s cloak he borrowed, and marching up to the door. He knocks three times and waits.

When the baker who is not the actual baker answers the door, he frowns at him.

Derek is unused to being frowned at. Most who see him recognise him as the Baron’s son and immediately start trying to ingratiate themselves to him.

This man, with his dark eyes and reddened lips narrows his eyes at him. “State your business,” he says.

“Derek,” Derek replies, “from the Baron’s house. Here to fetch some loaves for the ball that is to commence this evening.”

“Oh.” The man steps back, allowing Derek to squeeze by. Their hands brush as the man reaches for his cloak while Derek moves to remove it himself.

Something like lightning passes between them, and he freezes, staring down at their hands. The man has already pulled away, a muttered apology falling from his lips. His voice is roughened, syllables not quite right in the sense that they aren’t as distinctly English as Derek was expecting.

The man must be a foreigner. He speaks well though, so Derek would hazard a wager that he is not a new foreigner.

“Stiles,” the man offers.

“Derek,” Derek says again.

There is a clatter from the baker’s bench.

“Derek?” the real baker squeaks.

Derek nods.

The baker bows quickly, hissing at Stiles to do the same. Derek holds up his hands. “There is no need for that,” he says, aware that he is grimacing. Were he any other noble, he would fair demand it of his people, but Derek is the second son of the Baron and wishes no part in the almost un-Godly worship the people heap upon the nobility.

“Um, the loaves are almost ready. Well, most of them.”

The baker points at the nine loaves lined up on the edge of the table. Derek pretends to inspect them. They’re bread. It’s pretty hard to mess up bread.

Derek knows his mother sent him for twelve loaves, but really, how much food are they planning on serving? Derek knows it’s almost always a full meal. He is usually the only one too nervous and unsure to eat. Nine loaves honestly is probably enough, but just in case, he had better wait for the other three.

“I have time,” he says, and the baker and Stiles exchange a look of dismay. It stings in the same way the whispers that float around Derek do, and self-consciously, he rubs at his mark. “I can wait outside?” he offers. It’s freezing, but Derek would rather spend his time marching around the streets than here where his presence is wholly unwanted.

“No, no,” the baker hurries to assure him, but Stiles interrupts with a quiet, firm, “Scott.”

Derek inclines his head, wraps his cloak a little more firmly around himself and bids both men a good day. He’ll return when the sun drops lower than the rooftops. That should be plenty of time for the remaining loaves to be baked and cooled enough to carry.

Then, he takes his leave.

The door barely shuts before Stiles and Scott burst into conversation, and Derek feels the same tug of pain on his heart.

His family are the only ones who tolerate him.

Perhaps the rumours are right and Derek is unlovable.

He shudders in the wind and then starts walking, keeping the street to his right so that he can find his way back.

~ * ~

“Why did you kick him out?” Scott demands as soon as the door closes. Stiles violently hushes him, certain that Derek is still listening at the door.

“Did you not see his clothing under his cloak?” Stiles snaps. “He is a noble. Why did you not tell me the nobles here gathered their own stock?”

“How was I to know?” Scott retorts. “Normally they send their servants. I guess Hale Manor is short-staffed now.”

“It is nearly Christmas,” Stiles agrees. He knows very little of how the Christians actually celebrate their designated birth of Christ, but he does enjoy some of the traditions like traveling home to see family or having feasts, if able.

He and Scott always go out to his father’s home and help with harvesting ice for summer. Then they sit around the stove and drink spiced cider.

“Besides,” Scott continues, “Derek isn’t a noble you have to worry about.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s different. You saw how uncomfortable he got when I recognised him, right?” Stiles nods. “Well, that’s just how he is. It’s just accepted as fact that the Royals were appointed by God, but Derek questions that divine right. He would much rather be elsewhere than at Hale Manor, but even a lord with very little chance to ascend to the throne, he’s expected to perform the same duties as his elder brother and father.”

“And what else of him?”Stiles asks, thinking of the spark that ignited when their hands brushed. He wonders what it means and why Derek’s countenance is markedly familiar even though Stiles is positive he has never seen him this close before today.

“These balls the Hales throw every month? They’re to find Derek a suitor.”

“He is unmatched?” Stiles finds that difficult. Many nobility, even lower ranking ones like Baron Hale, have their children betrothed before they are even out of swaddling. Of course, they don’t marry until each child has grown, but he still finds it surprising to hear that Derek is unattached.

Scott shrugs. He checks on the three loves still baking and decides they are done. He pulls them and sets them on his table to cool. “Most nobles find the match to their marks easily. Derek apparently has the mark of violence upon him, and none of the other nobles wish to marry into that.”

Stiles purses his lips, wondering at that. He thinks of his own mark, a faint outline of a howling wolf. He knows that wolves have been driven from this land long ago, considered far too dangerous to be around people and livestock. He keeps his mark hidden because he does not wish to have the same reputation of a wolf. Perhaps Derek has the same predicament?

There is a gentle rap upon the door, and Scott hurries to open it.

Standing on the step is Derek. Despite his thick cloak, he is shivering quite obviously, and Stiles feels a pit in his stomach open. Without ever having met Derek, he likely treated him exactly as the other nobles around Derek did.

He waits for Scott to invite Derek in, and even then, Derek just collects the loaves, leaves a bit of coin on the table for the food, and turns to go.

“Wait,” Stiles calls.

Derek pauses, looking back over his shoulder with a puzzled expression.

“Have you anyone to go to the ball with?”

“No,” Derek says. “If I had, I do not think there would be a ball.” He looks contemplative before turning back and setting the loaves down. “If you would go with me, I would make it worth your while.”

“And how is that?” Stiles asks. He cuts a glance to the coins. There is enough there for Scott to buy more provisions so that he can make more bread.

Derek follows his eyes. “I have a bit of coin that you may have if you accompany me for this one evening.” Derek rubs at his arm where, presumably, his mark is. Stiles’ fingers twitch, wishing to follow the action. Derek looks resigned when he says, “I only wish for one evening of pleasantness. You may be expected to dance, but please do not leave my side.”

Stiles agrees readily, despite the fact that he has no truly nice clothing and will surely be as out of place as a spring bloom in the dead of winter.

Derek smiles then, and Stiles feels taken. His heart beats wildly to be the recipient of that smile. “Come with me now and I shall find you something to wear,” Derek says, as if he knows Stiles’ very thoughts.

“Can you spare me, Scott?” Stiles asks. Scott doesn’t hesitate, grabbing the loaves and all but throwing them into Derek’s arms and shoving both of them towards the door.

“Have a wonderful time at the ball,” he says, shutting the door behind them.

Stiles barely had time to grab his cloak, and he wraps it tightly around himself. Derek smiles again, small and private.

“Thank you, Stiles. I do appreciate you so for taking time to do this.”

“You are paying me,” Stiles says, but he keeps his voice low, aware that neither he nor Derek need further damage to their reputations. He clears his throat, falling in step with Derek as they make their way through the slush on the streets. “Will your parents be angry at you for brining a male suitor to the ball?”

“They should be so happy that I will have someone that I think they shan’t bother you about what is beneath your trousers. Besides, they have been expecting that perhaps I would settle with a man instead of a woman.”

Stiles chokes on a breath. “Have you been with a man before?” Stiles himself has not, but he finds that he is not opposed to the idea. He only wishes that if he and Derek do end up spending the night engaged in an altogether private dance that he was not being paid for his adventures tonight. It sours the thought considerably.

Derek shrugs. “No,” he admits quietly. “But, when I imagine something like that, I rarely see myself with a woman.”

Stiles blushes. He has dreamed sometimes of his spouse, and as Derek said, it is almost never a woman. Stiles was seeking answers and that is why he has been performing his future-spying spells.

He cuts a quick glance to Derek, wondering his thoughts on magic use. There are people that claim any who use magic are evil, destined to destroy and damage, much as the wolves driven from the land were reputed. In Stiles’ homeland, magic was celebrated, thought of as an extension of one’s self. Here, he is as likely to be put to death for looking in a bowl of water as he is for burning down a Church.

Christians are confusing.

Derek adjusts his hold on the loaves, and extends a hand to Stiles. “I feel you have something very important to tell me,” he says, and Stiles wonders again if Derek has a secret line to his thoughts. “I shall not push you, and whatever you reveal to me will be kept with utmost confidence.”

Stiles lets Derek take his hand, feeling that same spark from earlier. Unbidden, the words rise up in his throat, and it takes great effort to force them back down. He will tell Derek about the magic, maybe, when they are not surrounded by people who may take Stiles’ words badly.

For now, though, he takes the comfort offered by Derek, and follows him to Hale Manor.

~ * ~

Derek drops the loaves in the kitchen and then drags Stiles up to his room where he digs through his wardrobe until he finds a waistcoat, trousers in the same colour, and a shirt that looks as if it will fit Stiles.

Derek brings in Boyd, a fantastic tailor, who makes Derek’s ill-fitting clothing look wonderful on Stiles’ lean and lanky body. There is breadth to those shoulders and the colour of the coat and trousers bring out the flecks of gold in Stiles’ eyes.

Derek averts his eyes when Stiles’ mark is revealed, wishing to offer him the same privacy Derek himself has rarely had with his own mark.

Boyd makes a surprised noise but the covers it with a cough, explaining that he swallowed wrong.

When Boyd is done, Stiles looks amazing. And it is time for Derek to also get ready. The ball shall begin in an hour, and he hasn’t even washed away his traipsing through the snow yet. He helps Stiles disrobe, averting his eyes once again so that he won’t accidentally look at stiles’ mark despite his curiosity. He knows it must be something as bad as his own if Boyd broke composure, and he doesn’t want Stiles to feel uncomfortable here. He is his guest even if Derek is giving him money to attend.

It is worth it to Derek to not have to spend the evening alone, subjected to the rumours excitedly passed about when he moves from one cluster of guests to another.

He reminds Stiles that they are not to be separated when they return from the bathing room and get dressed again. Derek chooses a waistcoat in green, to bring out his eyes, as Cora is so fond of saying. He pairs it with dark trousers and a white shirt. Stiles remains dashing, and Derek ties Stiles’ tie, aware that what is usually perfunctory at best when performed by a servant is made doubly intimate by the fact that whenever he gets too close to Stiles’ skin, there’s a crackle of electricity that makes him think of static shocks, when two things with too much charge interact.

He finds that, aside from the fact that the shocks are getting a little more painful with each discharge, he doesn’t mind it.

Stiles, on the other hand, seems more and more uncomfortable. By the time Derek is done, he is shaking.

“Are you all right?” Derek pours a glass of water for Stiles. He accepts it, sinking onto a chair to sip at it.

“No,” he finally says when the glass is half empty. He looks absolutely miserable. “Derek, I am magic.”

Magic? Derek presses on his mark. Isn’t everyone a little magic? He knows some people are afraid of what they don’t know, and magic falls into that category.

“And?” he prompts, certain that there must be more.

“And that’s it,” Stiles says, spreading his hands. He’s holding something else back, but Derek isn’t in the habit of forcing people to divulge secrets. He knows what it’s like to hide things.

“Well. It’s almost time that we go down to the ballroom. Do you feel well enough to accompany me?”

Stiles nods tightly. Derek sets aside the glass and offers his arm. Stiles accepts with a smile.

It isn’t until they’re already in the ballroom, glasses of punch in hand as Derek takes Stiles around the room, introducing him to his brothers and sisters that he realises he never told his parents that he was bringing someone. He hopes there aren’t many suitors to turn down.

“Derek,” his mother says disapprovingly when they stop to pay their respects to the Baron and Baroness.

“This is Stiles,” Derek says, in an undertone, aware that there are people staring at Stiles, trying to place him in their noble world. “He agreed to accompany me tonight.”

Mother hides her puzzlement well, accepting Stiles’ bow as proper greeting. She gives Derek a look that tells him he will have to explain later, but she allows them to continue circulating. Stiles appears overwhelmed and nervous, so Derek takes him to a corner and settles him next to Cora and Isadora, his other younger sister, who are discussing the best methods of shipping paintings throughout Europe.

His sisters immediately draw Stiles into the discussion especially when Isadora recognizes Stiles’ accent as coming from an area of Europe currently under mass migration, although, judging from Stiles’ mastery of their language, he has spent the past several years here.

Derek is content to stand over them, fetching drinks and a few bites to eat as required, but almost as soon as he steps away, his mother draws him towards the center of the floor to meet with a few suitors. Obediently, Derek draws up his sleeves and shows off the rose Cora painted so many hours ago.

His mother becomes enraged although she hides it well, while none of the suitors have a match to either Derek’s false or true mark.

The evening wears on thusly.

~ * ~

Stiles looks up when a young man joins them. He was expecting Derek to return with a drink, as Stiles’ first glass is long empty, but Derek appears to be busy with his mother.

The life of a noble.

“I’m Daniel,” the man says, shoving his hand in Stiles’ space for a quick shake.

“Stiles,” Stiles returns. He is perhaps shorter than he means to be, but Daniel looks delighted.

“So you are who Derek dragged here. There’s rumours that you are a noble from another country.”

“I’m afraid not.” Stiles smiles.“Just a simple peasant who immigrated a number of years ago.”

“Stiles was telling us of his life in Galicia.”

“Isn’t there some unrest there?” Daniel’s brow creases. It reminds Stiles of Derek, and he glances about the room, but he cannot see the man anywhere.

“There is,” Stiles confirms. If they talk much longer on this topic, the Hales will discover that he is not Christian, and Stiles hasn’t known any of them long enough to ascertain whether he will be safe if that information is divulged.

Their conversation doesn’t get a chance to resume because somewhat loudly, a lord and lady at the table next to them make exclamations of disgust.

“I don’t see why we keep trying,” the lady says, harshly. “They know that something is wrong with that boy.”

“Why they seem to think we don’t know it is beyond me,” the lord agrees.

Curious, Stiles leans a little closer, wondering who they are disparaging.

He gets an answer soon enough when he sees Derek walking towards them stiffly, holding Stiles’ drink in his tightly clenched fist while his mother and another lady, closer in age to Derek than his mother, walk with him.

“If you would just allow your mark to be seen,” Derek’s mother says, not softly enough to remain unheard.

“A mark like Derek’s can only mean violence,” the younger lady says, not quite as quietly. The Baroness shoots her an angry glare. The lady seems unaffected, continuing, “Just because wolves were driven out of England a few hundred years ago, it does not mean that we don’t remember their destruction and havoc. We only have to listen to stories from other countries to remember just how vicious wolves really are.”

Derek reaches them, hands Stiles the drink, which Stiles immediately sets down, and turns on his heel. His face is red, mouth in a thin line. He appears close to tears, but Stiles isn’t sure why he thinks that. No one else, aside from Derek’s family, appears bothered by the swelling of voices clamouring around Derek as he makes his way to the grand staircase.

Without quite meaning to, Stiles finds himself on his feet, throwing wide his arms and drawing on the magic he can feel running through his body. He uses it to throw his voice, amplifying it until it drowns out the noisy crowd.

“How dare you!” he shouts. “How dare you claim that someone is violent and dangerous when you know nothing of them?” He rolls up his sleeves, showing off his own howling wolf. “I know danger; I’ve seen men do dastardly things. You hate your Baron’s son because he bears this mark?” Stiles slaps his arm and his wolf leaps from his skin, settling down onto its haunches in front of Stiles. The wolf is nothing more than an apparition, barely tangible enough to see. Still, people recoil at the sight of it.

On the steps, Stiles sees Derek pause. He turns slowly, staring at the wolf. Consciously or not, he rolls up his own sleeve. Stiles is most disappointed to see that Derek has a rose, not a wolf, on his arm. Then Cora pushes past him, the discarded drink in hand. She uses a handkerchief procured from somewhere, dips it in the drink, and scrubs harshly at Derek’s rose.

The ink wipes away, leaving the image of a howling wolf there.

Derek touches it and then jerks back when a wolf bursts forth from his arm. Derek’s wolf doesn’t sit at his feet. No, it marches right up to Stiles’ wolf, touches noses and then settles there, both of them just waiting.

And still the nobles sit silent.

Derek moves to Stiles’ side, laying his arm atop Stiles’ so that their marks are pressed together. The wolves touch noses again and fade away to nothing.

“How wonderful!” Derek’s mother exclaims. “You have finally found your match.” She takes them both by the arm and leads them to the grand staircase. “I wish to announce the engagement of my son Derek, son of James, Baron of Beaconshire and his betrothed, Stiles of Beaconshire.”

The Hale children break into loud cheers and clapping, and grudgingly the nobles join in. Neither the lady nor lord who had spoken so disparagingly of Derek do anything.

The Baroness leans close to Stiles. “I would thank you not to do magic among our company again. I can convince everyone that it was simply part of the mark-mating, but I cannot protect you if word gets out that there is a sorcerer in our midst.”

Stiles is lucky, he knows, that the Baroness is ready to fight for him already when she doesn’t know him and was displeased with Derek bringing him in the first place. He can understand and respect her wishes to not perform more magic.

He won’t stop, of course. He’s spent much of his life learning what he has. He won’t put it away, and he hopes that bearing the same mark as Derek means that Derek will understand that magic is literally in Stiles’ blood.

They cannot be together if it turns out that Derek agrees with the persecution of magic users.

Derek takes Stiles’ hand, twines their fingers together. “Would you dance with me?” he asks softly. In the request, Stiles hears just how upset Derek still is but also how soothed he is to have found his mark-mate. Stiles looks around the room, at the unfamiliar faces all staring woodenly back at him. He would rather not, but he also does not want to reject Derek so quickly.

Perhaps one dance won’t be so difficult.

In answer, Stiles tightens his grip on Derek’s hand and leads him down the stairs and onto the cleared area. “You should know,” he whispers as they take their positions, “I am neither known for my grace nor my prowess in dancing.”

“That is quite all right,” Derek returns easily. “I am known as a brute despite the fact that I have never once lost my temper.”

Stiles smiles.

~ * ~

One dance turns into many, and by the time dinner is called, Derek is thoroughly enamored with Stiles. Not that he wasn’t before, but there is something genuine now when before Stiles was hiding a part of himself.

Derek would guess that it was the magic, but he also suspects that Stiles may not share the same faith as most of England.

He is proven correct when Stiles questions the food, and based on Derek’s answers, only eats the bread that his friend made.

Once done with that, and because Derek has disregarded his parents’ attempt at finding him a suitor, the ball drags. Neither Stiles nor Derek is much in the mood for dancing anymore, too busy conversing on the finer points of suppression of peoples. Derek thinks war is brewing, and Stiles knows it, from the way he speaks.

“I will still pay you,” Derek says at the end of the night when he and Stiles are in a carriage being ferried to the village. Daniel and Cora both begged to accompany them as chaperones, and Mother granted it.

He has the bag of coins Stiles more than earned sitting in his lap. Stiles has barely glanced at it all night, flushing whenever his eyes fall to Derek’s lap.

“I shouldn’t,” he says demurely.

They dance around it for another few minutes before Daniel, always impatient, bursts out, “For land’s sakes, Stiles, just take the damn thing. Call it a dowry for becoming a part of the family.”

Stiles blushes harder but he doesn’t give the coins back when Derek hands them to him.

“It doesn’t make you any less,” Derek says quietly. “If anything, it’s more. It’s an apology for how things turned out.”

“I haven’t minded,” Stiles says. “But are you certain you wish to still pay me?”

“I am. After all, what kind of a husband would I be if I did not give you a purse to do with as you please?”

He smiles, to take the bite of the words out. Stiles nods solemnly.

“And am I to be just a husband, or will I continue as I have?”

Stiles is an apprentice at the apothecary. It is the perfect cover for his magic, Derek thinks. If Mother hadn’t declared the wolves to have been a part of exposure of the mark-mate, Derek thinks Stiles could have hid behind the potions of the apothecary.

“You shall do whatever it is you desire,” Derek says. “And if you need more money to do it, let me know and I will procure it for you.”

They reach the door of Stiles’ friend and before Stiles steps out of the carriage, Derek gently lays his hands upon his face, tilting it ever so slightly until he can slot their mouths together.

The same electricity from their first touch sparks over his lips, and when he pulls back, he feels as though they are swollen and reddened, announcing to all that he has just kissed his mark-mate.

Stiles looks at him, fondness softening his face. “Good night, my lord,” he says and slips from the carriage.

Derek looks to his brother and sister, who are both busy pretending to have a conversation, but Cora is talking of a painting and Daniel is speaking of the holly bushes that will need to be trimmed in a few days.

Derek settles back in his seat with a smile. He strokes a finger down his arm, tracing the lines of his mark. From outside the carriage, they hear Stiles slam into the door of his friend’s bakery, a bitten off curse following.

Then Derek’s own mark tingles, the feelings of fingers tracing his mark though he stopped when they heard Stiles.

He smiles to himself, glad for the connection. It makes him happy that Stiles has accepted his mark. It makes it easier to accept his own.

And later, they discover just how sensitive and strong their bond is each with their hands on their marks and a different, matching appendage.

~ End ~


End file.
